


An Incurable Inability to Focus

by wisdomeagle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Caning, Community: femslash_kink, Community: kink_bingo, Epistolary, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teacher/Student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisdomeagle/pseuds/wisdomeagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hermione was at Hogwarts she found fantasies about Professor McGonagall painfully distracting. It's ten years later, and she still can't get any work done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Incurable Inability to Focus

My dear Professor,

The scenario you shared in your last made me blush, and, I confess, completely unable to focus on any work for the rest of the afternoon, as I was busy _thoroughly_ exploring my thoughts about it. Since you were so generous, and since you asked -- yes, I will tell you about the daydreams (to use a schoolgirl word) that I had about you while I was at school. The best ones are still seared into my memory (and my skin), but I'm afraid I could tell you the others, too, since I had the very unwise habit of committing most of my thoughts to parchment. If you spot any stray overwrought, teenaged prose, trust that those are the bits that I wrote when I was, indeed, a teenager. And if there are words that I can't say without blushing even now? Those are the parts that I couldn't quite dream when I was fifteen.

Speaking of blushing! I've read your letter through twice, and I am actually flushed, Minerva -- I put my hand to my cheek and it's quite warm -- though not as warm as it would be if you were here to slap me.

I could never quite make myself believe the slapping, hair-pulling fantasies -- you were too rigid for those. But I _could_ imagine that you would discipline me, since you were quite clear that you would never favor Gryffindor, and in my OWL year you told me explicitly that you'd hold me to higher standards than any other student, that you would mark off points for grammar and wouldn't hesitate to assign extra reading if you thought I'd benefit. And you did assign reading, although I suspected (or wanted to believe) that your aim was more to distance me from Ron Weasley and Harry Potter than to improve my academic career.

At one of our many career counseling meetings, then, after we'd fiddled with the timetable for next term and you'd admonished me to attend more to my studies and less to boys -- you might say, "Really, Miss Granger, you are far too involved with Potter's affairs. I wish you'd devote as much attention to Transfiguration as you do to hero-worship."

I'd protest that it was nothing to do with hero worship, and you'd snort and confess that I was far brighter and more talented and had much more sense than he did, and that you understood that _he_ would benefit from _my_ influence, but that you were very afraid that _his_ influence on me was making me careless and inattentive.

You would threaten to take away privileges if I didn't produce so many inches on a pet topic. If I said you were trying to prevent me from having friends, you'd say yes, it was clear that I was the kind of girl who shouldn't be friends with boys, and if I were brazen enough to ask what you were implying, you'd ask how many hours I spent snogging when I should have been revising.

"Professor! There's no one I even _want_ to snog. I'd much rather do extra work for you."

"So you're a tart _and_ you lie about it. I'm sorry I didn't intervene sooner. Stand up, and lean over my desk."

"But, Professor, I honestly haven't -- I'm not even _interested_ in boys."

"Nor am I. Pull your robe up."

"This isn't fair!"

"Perhaps not, but I trust in time you'll see the benefit of firm discipline. Now will you pull up your robe or must I remove it with my wand?"

I do pull my robe up, and my skirt, and I'm wearing clean, sensible underthings that you tell me to push down to my ankles.

"Will you really spank my bare bum, ma'am?"

"Spank? Are you a child? I'm going to cane you, Miss Granger, and you will thank me for it."

I am already painfully, shamefully aroused, and I know that you'll see that I'm dripping, and you'll think me more of a slut than you already do. But I do it anyhow, and bend over quickly, pressing my legs together tightly, praying you won't notice.

"You're wet, aren't you?"

I don't answer, and you hit me with your hand, lightly, but sharp enough to sting, sharp enough that I jump. Sharp enough that my clit throbs.

"Yes, ma'am."

"How many times a week do you touch yourself?"

"Four night a week, maybe?" I say to your inkwell, although the real answer is every night, sometimes twice on days when I have double Transfiguration, when I spend hours twisting in my seat, watching your fingers curled around your wand, the way you raise your eyebrows at wrong answers and the short smile of pleasure when someone is clever enough to please you. When _I've_ pleased you, when you smile at me, when you stop pacing and stand by my desk for a moment and rest a hand lightly on my shoulder -- those days I don't wait until nighttime, but sneak back to the dormitory -- _yes_ when I should be revising, you are absolutely correct; the lecture you're giving now about how I care too much about pleasure and too little about my future is completely fair, and I grip the edge of your desk so hard my fingers are going numb, because I want so badly to put a hand between my legs.

"So we'll say one stroke for every night you pleasure yourself," you say. "And another six for every night that you should devote entirely to schoolwork and spend socializing instead."

You rest a hand on the small of my back, and I relax a little. My legs slip apart, and with your other hand you touch me, just for a moment, a finger between my lips, then rubbing the wetness over my clit, just once, just enough to make me gasp. 

"Ten strokes."

The first stroke is harsh, but tolerable, and I'm saying, "One, thank you, ma'am," when the pain blossoms and I realize what unbearable really means.

And then you hit me again. "Two. Thank you."

The cane taps me lightly right below my buttocks. "Mmm?"

"Thank you _ma'am_."

The third proper stroke lands where the first one did, just when the pain was starting to subside. This time there are tears in my gratitude.

And a fourth, and a fifth, and I'm swaying, presenting a moving target, wishing I could rub against your desk, against your leg, anything, and the sixth, "Thank you, ma'am," is choked, and the seventh comes between sobs. I don't know what's wetter, my face or my cunt, and when the cane lands again I think I am on fire. 

"Please, please, too much!"

"You are a _slut_ , Miss Granger, and you're in danger of becoming a _stupid_ slut. You'll be grateful for this discipline when you're older and find I've given you the ability to control your body's lusts. That's an extra two strokes."

"Nine, thank you ma'am." I've lost track of where they're landing; I know you're aiming carefully, creating a delicate pattern of red welts, but all I feel is one blaze of pain-and-desire, deep, longing emptiness in my cunt and the throbbing, stinging pain on my bottom and the tops of my thighs.

"Ten!" I take a breath, watch a tear fall onto your cherry wood desk. "Thank you, ma'am."

The eleventh stroke is especially vicious, sharp and deep against both cheeks, and I stammer on my gratitude. And then one last stroke, on top of the others and so hard I wonder how much I'm actually bleeding. It feels as if you've torn me apart. 

You barely take the time to set the cane on the desk before you fall on me, and your wool robes on my sore, bleeding body are torture, but your hands are between my legs and you're frigging me properly, quick and precise on my clit with your right hand, and, with your left, testing how many fingers my virgin cunt will take. Two go in without a struggle, and you whisper something about how many times I've fucked myself, ask, "Were you thinking of me?"

"Yes, ma'am. Every time. Every time I wish they were your fingers inside me."

And this time it is, three fingers inside me, stretching me, the pain barely noticeable compared to the blaze of pain that is my arse, and your other hand is relentless, circling, circling, bringing me closer and closer -- I breathe in rhythm with your thrusts. I inhale, and you plunge your fingers deep into my cunt, and I let go of everything. I exhale slowly, riding out the climax, shaking, sobbing. Between my sobs I choke out, "Oh, ma'am, thank you ma'am." My lower half is a tangle of sensation. I can't tell what's pain and what's pleasure -- it's all just _intense_ , almost too much, not quite -- even now -- enough. 

The climax subsides; your fingers slip out; my arse is still burning, and my tears are spent. You lift me off your desk, turn me around, kiss me. It's tender and gentle and incongruous, and I lean my whole body against yours. You are so strong, and sturdy, and wise, and your kiss is so gentle, and this, more than the punishment, more than the sex, is what will break me. I open my mouth and return your kiss.

++

Minerva, I am more than a little ashamed, but you did ask. And yes, this is just as effective as it was a decade ago, and I desire you more than ever. I'm wet, and I want to come, and I'm so hungry for you. You must send less incendiary letters, my dear, or I will never finish this project and thus never come home to you. 

If you are moved to procure a cane, I would humbly request rattan, not too supple. Something with a bite.

Yours, ever,  
Hermione


End file.
